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The Wind Mage's Legacy: Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2024-12-15 09:03:02 +0000 UTCHi all,
Here’s the final chapter of the week. Harry performs another rescue and has his first Quidditch practice.
Chapter 12
Harry stood behind the curtain of the conference room, tugging at his formal robes. The excited chatter of reporters filtered through from the other side. Egbert Whitehead's deep voice carried over the noise as he started the proceedings.
"Ready?" Brevis asked, appearing at Harry's side.
"As I'll ever be." Harry straightened his shoulders.
"Remember, let the coach field any questions you’re not comfortable answering," Brevis said, slapping his back. "You got this."
Harry nodded and strode onto the stage. The coach's voice boomed through the magical amplification system.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Today marks a new chapter for the Tutshill Tornados. We're proud to announce our new Seeker..."
Harry stepped through the curtain. Camera flashes burst like lightning across the room. He unclasped his formal robes, letting them fall to reveal the Tornadoes' new uniform underneath.
The sleek navy vest hugged his torso, its metallic clasps gleaming under the lights. Beneath it, a long-sleeved pale mint green shirt clung to his frame. His name stretched across the shoulders above silver numbers swirled with ghosted tornado patterns. A pair of navy pants completed the uniform.
Unlike school, professional Quidditch uniforms didn't include robes and were designed to be more streamlined.
Harry took his seat between Iggy and Brevis at the long table.
"We're also announcing major upgrades to our stadium," Iggy continued. "The renovations will be complete before our season opener against the Ballycastle Bats."
Iggy gestured to a covered stand. "Additionally, we've partnered with the Nimbus Racing Broom Company to develop the Tornado Series—position-specific racing brooms designed to our specifications. The team will work with professional-grade models, while consumers will have access to the public models. They will maintain the same design aesthetic while being more suitable for recreational flying."
The cover disappeared, exposing the prototype the Firebolt designers had scrambled to assemble for the press conference.
The broom combined the Firebolt's proven aerodynamics with revolutionary features unique to the Tornado Series. Its handle, crafted from polished ebony, absorbed light like liquid shadow. Silver-white ash spiralled along the shaft in delicate inlays, the pattern echoing wind currents frozen in wood. Even as a display model, it radiated power and precision.
"Questions?" Iggy asked.
Hands shot up across the room. Iggy pointed to a witch in green robes.
"Mr Potter, why the Tornadoes? Several teams made better offers."
"I liked the name," Harry said, drawing a few laughs. "But I didn't decide until I met the team and management. Their vision for the future matched mine."
"Your thoughts on the league's new rules?" called out a wizard from Quidditch Weekly.
"Love them. They'll make matches more tactical, and more exciting for fans. I hope the European League adopts similar changes."
Harry fielded several more questions before a familiar reporter raised her hand. “Rita Skeeter. Reporter for the Daily Prophet.”
“You don’t need to introduce yourself, Miss Skeeter,” Harry said. “We are well acquainted.”
More laughs.
"Since we are so well acquainted, you should call me Rita,” the woman purred. “Will you use your abilities to influence the games? The public has witnessed your ability to control the wind firsthand. Don’t you think it’s unfair to the other teams?"
"I will never use my abilities during matches. The British and Irish Quidditch League can implement any measures they deem necessary to ensure fair play."
"Speaking of fair play," Rita pressed, "how do you respond to concerns about being both a player and a major investor? Some say it's a conflict of interest."
"I've declined a salary," Harry said. "My investment is exactly that—an investment. If we don't produce results, I lose money like any other investor."
"But your fame alone—"
"Fame doesn't win matches," Harry cut in. "It takes talent and hard work. Next question."
Before Rita could respond, the conference room doors burst open. Three figures in crisp charcoal robes strode in, their MACUSA badges glinting.
"Mr Potter." The lead agent, a stern-faced witch, fixed him with an unwavering stare. "We need to discuss your recent activities."
Iggy half-rose. "This is a private event—"
"It's fine." Harry stood. "Let's talk outside."
He followed the MACUSA agents into the corridor, conscious of the reporters straining to listen.
"Impressive light show over London," the witch said. "Though we both know it wasn't aliens."
"Do we?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Cut the act, Mr Potter. We've reviewed memories from the Battle of Hogwarts. Your wind abilities match the recent phenomena exactly."
Harry folded his arms. "Interesting theory. What are you going to do about it.”
The corridor fell silent as Harry stared down the MACUSA agents. Before the stern-faced witch could respond, urgent footsteps came towards them.
"Ah, there you are," Kingsley said. He strode towards them in sweeping purple robes. "I apologise for these agents disrupting your press conference, Harry."
"What the hell is going on?" Harry asked.
"Allow me to introduce Penelope Waters, Head of MACUSA's Special Operations." Kingsley gestured to the stern-faced witch, but she cut him off before he could continue.
"We need your help, Mr Potter."
Harry raised an eyebrow. He didn't expect that response.
"There's an offshore oil rig off the coast of California that's on fire," Penelope said. "There's little time before all the workers are killed. The waves are too rough for them to survive in the water."
"You want me to help? Can't your government deal with it?"
Penelope shook her head. "There's already a news helicopter out there recording the disaster live. They were there to do a routine news segment when things went to hell. We can’t interfere in this matter."
"Wait a moment." Harry's eyes narrowed. "Are you asking me to save them with my 'Tempest' persona?"
Penelope nodded, looking anxious. "Since you've already become well known to the public, it won't cost us anything to have you help."
"The British and American governments have been in talks lately to collaborate on the issue of 'Tempest'," Kingsley interjected. "Both magical and non-magical governments. Instead of censoring your actions, we've decided to fully support you."
"What?"
"It actually presents an opportunity. We hope to use you as a starting point for one day introducing the—”
"We don't have time for this." Penelope pulled out a playing card. "Are you going to help, Mr Potter? If you agree, this portkey will take you to a MACUSA-owned building close to the offshore oil rig."
Harry sensed there was something more to the rescue than met the eye. While it was a tragic disaster, he doubted MACUSA would intervene without a good reason.
"If I do this, what's in it for me?" Harry asked. "I don't mind saving people, but I won’t be your hero on command. What's to stop you from bothering me endlessly in the future?"
Emmeline nodded. "I understand your concern but this is a special exception. We prefer not to depend on others when we can do things ourselves. If you do this, we will owe you a huge favour."
Kingsley pulled Harry aside, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Harry, I wouldn't dismiss the American's offer. Especially since I've gotten word of the ICW convening to discuss your situation."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Most of the ICW is against any hint of the magical world leaking out, even if you've created this, in their words, 'half-baked alien story'. They're not going to leave you alone."
"What does the British ICW representative have to say about this?"
"Harry, we haven't had one in the ICW since '96, when Voldemort was revealed and the war broke out. I've been trying to get our seat back since I became Acting Minister, but it hasn't been easy."
Harry sighed. "So, helping the Americans with this issue helps me."
Kingsley nodded.
Harry pulled out his wand and transfigured his uniform into a green cloak, the typical one that 'Tempest' wore. He pulled the hood over his head and strode back to Penelope, holding out his hand. She passed him the playing card.
"The activation phrase is 'Gambit'."
Harry smirked. Someone was an X-Men fan.
"The oil rig is located—" Penelope started, but Harry had already muttered "Gambit."
The familiar yank behind his navel wrenched him off his feet. The world dissolved into a blur of colour and sound. With a crack of displaced air, his feet slammed onto hardwood flooring.
"That was a lot easier than my previous experiences with portkeys."
He had appeared in someone's living room. The rhythmic crash of waves sounded from outside. A set of sliding glass doors led to a balcony overlooking the sea. England’s late afternoon had become early morning because of the two different time zones.
Kaze materialised beside him. "Is it a good idea to get involved in this?"
"Too early to say."
Harry strode to the door and stepped onto the balcony. He closed his eyes, focusing on sending the air currents out to search for the oil rig. Without the wind spirits, his range was reduced, but it should be enough to find it.
When he located the oil rig, he rose into the air and began flying towards the burning structure.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Flames roared across the oil rig's uppermost deck, turning the night sky orange. Black smoke billowed upwards as Harry approached, the heat blast hitting him even from fifty metres away. A news helicopter circled at a safe distance, its spotlight beam cutting through the smoke.
Harry listened to the excited reporter's chatter, revealing details about the situation.
It was a semi-submersible drilling unit, with a crew capacity of sixty, and four main support columns anchored to the seabed over 100 metres down. Most of the crew had evacuated hours ago when the initial pressure alarms sounded. The fifteen remaining workers had stayed behind trying to prevent catastrophic failure.
Waves crashed against the rig's supports, the water below churning violently. The structure groaned, metal warping from the intense heat. On the lower platform, the remaining workers huddled behind a makeshift barrier of steel plates, trapped between advancing flames and thirty-metre drops to churning seas.
Harry landed on the edge of the flames. His wind barrier kept the worst of the heat at bay, but sweat still ran down his face beneath the hood. The acrid stench of burning oil and melting metal filled his nostrils.
"The fire's spreading to the gas lines," a worker in a scorched yellow helmet yelled. "We've got maybe ten minutes before this whole place goes up!"
"Make that five," another worker cut in. Her face was streaked with soot, blood trickling from a gash on her forehead. "Primary coolant's gone. Pressure's critical in sectors three through six."
Harry thrust both hands forward, commanding the wind to part the flames. A corridor opened through the inferno, exposing the scorched metal deck. He strode through, cloak billowing behind him as burning debris rained down around them.
"Get ready to move," he called out. The workers stared at him, wide-eyed. "I'll clear a path to the landing pad."
The wind responded to his will, carving a safe passage through the flames. He herded the workers forward, maintaining the wind barrier around them. Something exploded below deck, the shock wave staggering them. A support beam crashed down, nearly crushing two workers before Harry deflected it with a blast of air.
"Watch the pipes overhead!" someone shouted. "They're carrying enough natural gas to level a city block!"
They reached the landing pad as another blast rocked the rig. Metal screamed as support beams buckled. The helicopter swooped closer, its rotors battling the thermals from the fire.
Harry created an updraft to stabilise the aircraft while maintaining the flame barrier. "How many can you take?"
"Six max," the pilot's voice crackled over a megaphone. "And we're running low on fuel."
Harry counted the workers. Fifteen. They'd need three trips, but the rig wouldn't last five minutes. The deck lurched beneath them, tilting ten degrees to port as another explosion tore through the lower levels.
A worker lost his footing, sliding towards the edge. Harry snagged him with a rope of compressed air, hauling him back.
"Change of plans." Harry gathered the winds around the entire group.. "Everyone stay close together."
He lifted them into the air, fighting against the turbulence from the fire. The news helicopter's spotlight followed their ascent, capturing everything.
The rig collapsed beneath them, folding in on itself like a house of cards. A massive fireball erupted as the gas lines ruptured, the blast wave slamming into Harry's wind barrier. He poured more power into the shield, teeth clenched against the strain.
"Holy shit," someone whispered as they watched the inferno below. The pilot's jaw dropped as fifteen people floated past his cockpit window.
Ten minutes later, he deposited the workers onto a beach. Emergency vehicles approached in the distance, sirens wailing. The news helicopter landed nearby, its crew scrambling out with cameras rolling.
"Thank you," the woman with the head wound said, gripping Harry's arm. "We were dead out there. No way around it."
Harry nodded, already rising into the air. He needed to leave before reporters could swarm him with questions. The wind carried him higher, then he shot off towards the MACUSA safehouse.
Kaze materialised beside him as he flew. "Not bad. But It doesn't match the rescue you carried out with the plane.”
“Can you see my expression?” Harry deadpanned. “It’s one of extreme disappointment.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry pushed open the door to the Tornadoes' changing room, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and broom polish. Ollie Weedley—nicknamed 'Weed' due to his lanky frame—bounded over from his locker. The nineteen-year-old's sandy hair stuck up in all directions, his enthusiasm radiating off him in waves.
"Can you give me an autograph?" Weed thrust a parchment and quill into Harry's hands.
Harry blinked. "You want me to give you, a Quidditch player, a signed autograph of another Quidditch player? When I haven’t even played a game yet."
"Not for Quidditch—I want one from Tempest."
Weed didn't appear too bothered that he had lost his starting position. He was likely the least experienced player on the team. His lack of confidence only added to the problem. Weed reminded him of Ron when he was playing Keeper.
Harry signed the parchment, watching as Weed scampered back to his locker, clutching the autograph like a precious treasure.
He yanked open his locker. Five requests for Tempest's autograph had ambushed him before he'd even reached the stadium. The magical community's discovery of his alter ego spread like Fiendfyre. It had brought him a new level of fame and notoriety.
A darker thought crept in as he pulled out his practice robes. One whisper to the Muggle press from a brave—or stupid—Muggle-born could shatter everything. It would make quite the headline. However, that would mean violating the Statute of Secrecy, so nothing had changed there.
A crack split the air as Kreacher appeared, holding a bundle of letters.
"What do you want, Kreacher?" Harry asked.
"I have brought the important mail Master has been ignoring."
"If you know I'm ignoring it, why bring it here?"
"Because Master must take his duties seriously." Kreacher's bat-like ears twitched with disapproval.
"I'll read them when I get home. I have practice now."
Kreacher thrust out his chin. "Master will read them now. Or else..."
"Or else what?"
"Kreacher will bring your fan mail here."
Harry's eyes widened while Weed sniggered from his corner.
"Give them to me." Harry held out his hand, defeated.
Kreacher passed over the bundle but stayed put, watching Harry with narrowed eyes. Flicking through the letters, Harry spotted his NEWT results. The sealed envelope felt heavy in his hands as he broke it open.
NASTILY EXHAUSTING WIZARDING TESTS
MINISTRY OF MAGIC EXAMINATION AUTHORITY
Candidate: POTTER, Harry James
Pass Grades Fail Grades
Outstanding (O) Poor (P)
Exceeds Expectations (E) Dreadful (D)
Acceptable (A) Troll (T)
RESULTS:
Charms Outstanding*
Defence Against the Dark Arts Outstanding*
Transfiguration Outstanding
Potions Outstanding
Astrology Exceeds Expectations
Care of Magical Creatures Outstanding
Herbology Exceeds Expectations
Divination Poor
*Special commendation awarded for exceptional practical demonstration
Notes: The candidate demonstrated remarkable proficiency in spell casting and magical control across all practical examinations.
Head Examiner: Griselda Marchbanks
Seal of the Wizarding Examinations Authority
Harry grinned. Daphne's relentless tutoring had paid off.
He earned seven Newts, five of which were Outstanding. Given his track record at school, that was quite an accomplishment. The patronus likely played a role in his high marks for Charms and Defense. As for Divination, he didn't care much about the result and guessed most of the answers.
He browsed through the rest of the mail but only one caught his eye. It was a letter from the President of the MACUSA. What could he possibly want?
Harry unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr Potter,
I write not as President of MACUSA, but as a father. My daughter Jenny was among those you rescued from the oil rig. Like many Squibs who leave our world behind, she found her place in the Muggle workforce, rising to safety coordinator on that platform.
When I learned of the fire, protocol dictated I could not intervene without risking exposure. I've never felt more helpless. Your actions that night saved not just my daughter, but spared me from an impossible choice between duty and family.
Jenny doesn't know I'm writing this. She left our world behind years ago, tired of living in the shadow of magic she couldn't access. But perhaps your example—using extraordinary abilities to help others regardless of their magical status—might begin healing that rift.
You have my deepest gratitude and MACUSA's continued support in your endeavours.
Samuel G. Quahog
President, Magical Congress of the United States of America
Harry folded the letter. No wonder MACUSA had been so insistent about that particular rescue.
"The rest can wait, Kreacher," Harry said, but Kreacher had already snatched the exam results and vanished with a crack. No doubt the parchment would end up framed and hung up somewhere where everyone could see it.
The door banged open as Mervyn strode in, his eyes landing on the stack of letters in Harry's hands. "Reading your fan mail, Potter?"
"Nah," Weed piped up from his bench. "You should see his actual fan mail. Harry needs a trunk to hold a day’s worth of it."
Harry shoved the remaining letters into his locker. "Bloody comedians, the pair of you."
Brevis and Keith strode in next, their weathered Beater's bats slung over broad shoulders. They were the older brothers of the team and looked out for the rest of the players. But they weren’t above using their bats to knock some sense into them.
The remaining male reserves filtered in, changing quickly as Brevis barked at them to hurry up. Ten minutes later, they headed out to the pitch where Iggy and the female players waited, surrounded by training equipment and a towering whiteboard.
The Furies stalked across the pitch in perfect synchronisation, their matching dark ponytails swinging with each step. Alana, Brenna, and Ciara—they were the three starting Chasers for the Tornadoes. They earned their nickname during their first season with the Tornadoes when a Falmouth Beater's "accidental" bat swing sent Ciara crashing to the ground. The player spent a week in St Mungo's before the healers figured out how to remove the multiple hexes from him.
The triplets' brutal playing style cemented their nickname. They dove through defensive formations like battering rams, shoulders smashing into opposing players, elbows finding ribs with surgical precision. Raw talent oozed from every move, but they were still rough around the edges. Two seasons of professional Quidditch had sharpened those edges, and the new rules would play into their strengths.
In addition to the main team, there were seven reserves, including Weed and Sarah. The Chaser’s shoulder had completely healed since her accident. The new five-substitute limit meant rotation choices would vary based on their opponents and the coach’s strategy.
"Alright, gather round," Iggy called. "As you see, Harry's joining us in training for the first time."
"Finally blessed us with his presence," Brenna drawled.
Harry blew her a kiss. "Heard the triplets were pining for me, so I couldn’t stay away."
The sisters grinned.
"Harry's had commitments," Iggy said, "but he's here now. Our real training starts today."
He jabbed his wand at the whiteboard where rule changes were written down. "These changes have upended the British and Irish Quidditch League. Every team is scrambling to adapt, whether it's hiring new players or developing new strategies. What do you think is the biggest change to the rules?"
"The new Snitch and Seeker rules," Weed piped up.
Iggy shook his head. "Anyone else?"
"Standardised time," Brevis said.
"Exactly. The new time restraint will dictate how we play the game." Iggy started pacing. "As far as I know, they haven't made catching the Snitch any easier to reflect the rule changes. Do you know the average catch time in League matches? Fourteen hours!"
The players glanced at each other, realising the implications.
"The matches that continue for multiple days skew that number, but Snitch catches under twelve hours are becoming rarer. Partly because our League's Seekers are rubbish." He paused, surveying the team. "Teams will adapt. Some will abandon proper Seeking altogether—use the position as an extra Chaser from the start. The Snitch becomes secondary. If the Snitch isn’t caught during regular play, they could always substitute a Seeker in before the match ends to have a chance at scoring the extra fifty points."
Harry's forehead creased. He hadn't considered how the time limit might negatively affect the Seeker position. He had only seen the positives.
Weed groaned. "Coach, that's mental."
"Most teams won't use Seekers as wildcards," Iggy said. "At least not initially as teams are figuring things out. Few players would be able to handle the responsibility effectively.”
“The Seeker may become a position in name only,” Harry said.
“Am I out of a job?” Weed asked.
Everyone ignored him.
“But we're doing things differently,” Iggy said, jabbing a finger at Harry. "We have limited time to prepare before the season starts, but you're learning to play beyond just the Seeker position."
"Okay," Harry shrugged.
"Such confidence," Alana smirked.
Iggy turned to address the whole squad. "Don't think that lets the rest of you off. These changes affect everyone. For example..."
He launched into a detailed breakdown of new formations, substitution strategies, and scoring calculations that made Harry's head spin. The whiteboard filled with moving X's and O's as Iggy outlined scenarios.
"Questions?" he asked finally.
"Yeah," Ciara called. "When do we start actual practice?"
Her sisters nodded eagerly.
Iggy sighed. "Split into groups. Chasers with Keith, Beaters with Brevis. Harry, you're with me first —I need to assess your full skill set further before integrating you with team plays."
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place, exhausted from a full day of practice. He entered the dining room to find the Greengrass sisters sitting at the table.
Daphne was hunched over another ancient tome. Across from her, Astoria perched on the edge of her chair, giggling as Zephyr performed loops and spirals through the air.
Daphne glanced up from her book. "Andromeda stopped by. She looked ready to hex someone. Probably you. What did you do to earn her ire?"
"No idea. But I should deal with it before she goes on the warpath," Harry tugged at his collar, the fabric stiff with dried sweat from the practical exams. "Mind asking her over for dinner while I take a shower?"
Daphne nodded and left the dining room.
"My sister found something interesting," Astoria said. "In the Black Library."
"About your curse?"
"No. Something about people with abilities like yours—controlling elements."
Kaze shimmered into view beside her chair. "What sort of information?"
Astoria jumped at his sudden appearance, her hand clutching the table edge. "Ask her yourself. I only got that much out of her. You know how she is."
"She'll share when she's ready." Harry stretched his aching muscles. "No point pushing."
Kaze vanished, no doubt heading to investigate himself. Though the spirit couldn't stray far from Harry, the house remained within bounds. He'd taken to appearing around the sisters, playing the role of just another wind spirit. Astoria accepted the explanation without question, but suspicion lurked behind Daphne's eyes. Between Ayano's visits and her own observations, she likely pieced together more than she let on.
Harry came downstairs after his shower and found Andromeda pacing the dining room's worn floorboards. Astoria sat with Teddy snoozing peacefully in her arms.
"Where's the fire?" Harry asked.
Andromeda spun on her heel. "Have you heard from the ICW?"
"Not a thing. Why?"
"My Ministry contact mentioned whispers about a public inquiry into your recent activities."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Kingsley's said nothing. They'd have to go through official channels, wouldn't they? Britain may lack a representative, but we're still ICW members."
"Usually, they would. I've got a bad feeling about this."
"What can they do? Slap me on the wrists? Lock me up? I'd like to see them try."
"The ICW commands considerable forces," Daphne cut in from the doorway. "Their hit wizards aren't to be underestimated."
"Funny how those forces never showed up during the war."
"In their minds, Britain made its bed." Andromeda sank into a chair, the wood creaking beneath her. "They left us to lie in it."
"Some international peacekeepers." Harry's lip curled. "How can they call themselves that when they chose to stay out of a war killing people and threatening the Statute of Secrecy? Sod their summons."
"That would only make things worse," Daphne said.
Harry raked fingers through his hair. "Fine. If they summon me, I'll go. But the moment it turns south, I'm gone."
Andromeda groaned. "Just like that?"
Harry smiled. “I’ll just wing it. If worse comes to worse, I’ll call in the favour from MACUSA. They aren’t part of the ICW but can hold their own against them.”
Harry glanced at Daphne. "Seen Kaze around?"
"He's in the Black Library," Daphne said. "Checking out the book I found about your... kind."
"Got something to get off your chest?"
Daphne shook her head, though her shoulders tensed. "It's none of my business. But if you would like to share, I'm willing to listen."
"I'll take that under advisement."
After dinner, Harry headed for the library. Kaze hovered near a reading desk, his ethereal form rippling with barely contained energy as he pored over the book.
"Found something interesting?" Harry asked, settling into a worn armchair.
"The Blacks knew about us." Kaze's form pulsed brighter. "Not just wind spirits—all elemental practitioners."
Harry leaned forward. "How?"
"This grimoire belonged to Carina Black. She documented encounters with spirit practitioners across Europe in the 1700s." Kaze gestured to the yellowed pages. "But that's not the fascinating part."
"Go on."
"The Blacks tried to replicate their abilities through dark rituals. They believed consuming spirits would grant them elemental powers." Kaze's form darkened. "They failed, of course. You can't force a connection—the spirit must choose."
Harry frowned. “It might explain where Voldemort got the idea from. He managed to perform a ritual, but it was to sacrifice the spirits to give himself the power of flight.”
"Yes." Kaze's voice turned cold. "But there's more. The Blacks didn't discover this knowledge by accident. They learned it from someone who has been gone for a long time.”
"Who?"
"They met my former adversary. The Betrayer. The Deceiver. The Wind Spirit King, Typhoon."
Harry had never heard anything about Kaze’s past before. Was this Typhoon the reason why Kaze had slept for centuries?
“What aren’t you telling me?”
"It makes no sense." Kaze's form flickered. "Typhoon died in the thirteenth century. How could he speak to the Blacks hundreds of years later?"
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry receives a summons from the ICW and continues his Quidditch practice.
Thanks for reading.
